


Words Inked Across Your Skin

by Azusa_Calypse



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson, Inkheart (2008)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Bisexual Evan Hansen, Disabled Characters Written By An Abled Person, Don't worry it's still 3rd pov, Gay Connor Murphy (Dear Evan Hansen), I'll try to do it justice, Inspired by Inkheart (2008), M/M, Missing Connor Murphy, Missing Evan Hansen, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, Time Skips, but feel free to critique
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 08:48:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25846855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azusa_Calypse/pseuds/Azusa_Calypse
Summary: It's been seven years since Connor Murphy and Evan Hansen went missing.Their file has long since gone cold and what little hope either families had shriveled up along with their memories.With a storm that threatened thunder, lightning and endless possibilities, could everything truly be possible?And would everything be enough to return what has been lost.(Updates Randomly)
Relationships: Cynthia Murphy/Larry Murphy, Evan Hansen/Connor Murphy, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added
Comments: 11
Kudos: 25





	1. What Started Out As Normal

Evan didn’t know what he had expected. The first day of school was always a horrendous affair and he hadn’t truly expected anything different. The cast on his arm was a let down, honestly. What had he even expected? For people to notice? His mom was convinced that ‘other kids’ would sign his cast and that would magically allow Evan to make a friend or even possibly two friends. Scandalous.

He might have even believed it, for about a second or two as he walked into school.

Alana Beck had approached him the moment he practically set foot in the school. Which, aside from making Evan dreadfully nervous—because that wasn’t anything new—it also made him pretty freakin’ ecstatic. A person, coming up to talk to him, without provocation, was a major step. 

Even if that person happened to be Alana Beck, who interacted with everyone, no matter how obsolete they were. 

It hadn’t even been a full five minutes before he was interacting (kind of) and talking (sort of) with someone, which was more than he could say for the entire first two months of last year. He didn’t get to ask her to sign his cast, but that wasn’t enough to bring his hesitantly good mood down.

Even his interaction with Jared went smoother than he could have predicted. He was still jerky and somehow made Evan feel like less than a human being than he usually did, but it went better than he had expected. Kinda pathetic, but when was he not?

Though, all good things, even the mediocre ones, eventually crashed and burned for him one way or another.

He was slammed into a locker, one of the hinges digging painfully into his back and the breath flew out of him like a poorly sealed whoopee cushion.

Connor Murphy stood above him. His hair was a tangled mess and clumped awkwardly on the side of his head, knuckles white from the death grip he had pressing down on the strap of his messenger bag. His eyes were like cyanide. A deadly, poisonous blue.

Evan didn’t even really know what he had done. He hadn’t thought that choking on anxiety induced spit would piss Connor off, but maybe making noise in general was enough. 

Although, the resignation Evan was showing didn’t seem to inflate his ego like it did for the rest of the bullies. 

Maybe he wanted a better fight. 

It's too bad he got Evan instead.

Connor bolted, possibly looking even more worked up than Evan, and Evan didn’t have it in him to see if he was truly gone. 

He could feel himself sink to the floor, as detached as he was, his arms mere noodles by his side as they flopped around looking for something to clutch onto. 

Not even 20 minutes in and he was already having a panic attack. How lame is that? As busy as he was trying to fend off the oncoming panic attack, he still heard the soft click, click of heeled boots on the linoleum tiles. 

As strange as it was, it helped him somewhat. Reminded him that he wasn't alone and that people could see him, that they could be watching him, judging him, wondering what the freak with the broken arm was doing trembling on the ground. 

His anxiety must have decided to give him a break because the attack dissipated, leaving him slightly panting and tense as hell. Evan thought that he had entered the level where he was so stressed and anxious that it just cancelled itself out. How kind.

“Are you alright?”

A hand entered his field of vision, lilac nails, and pale fingers. His stress induced calm spiked, sending a burst of panic into his gut and making it feel like the air had thinned and he was about to die—which was fun.

Oh right, person. There's a person in front of him. Zoe Murphy. Zoe Murphy is that person. Zoe is the sister of Connor Murphy, the very same dude that sent 

Evan spiraling in the first place. Oh wow, this is getting worse by the second. How nice.

If the situation wasn't bad enough, the one time a person actually noticed him was when he was in shock and that person had to be Zoe. The girl Evan had more or less been in love with since Sophomore year. Well, he wasn't exactly sure if you could fall in love with someone without having actually talked with them before, but it was a near thing. 

The moment where he could reasonably respond to her cautious question expired while Evan was lost in a haze. She dropped her hand against her leg, making a soft slap that Evan inwardly flinched at. Tucking a piece of hair behind her ear, Zoe seemed to force a smile, looking down at him in a way you could only achieve if you felt bad, but not bad enough to put any real emotion behind it.

“I’m sorry for my psycho brother, he’s an asshole.”

Evan remembered that breathing was a concept, and that, with breathing, comes the bonus realization that normal people breathe around and talk to other equally normal people all the time.

“U-Uhm, no, it’s rea- it’s really alright. And, like- it was my fault, so, yeah. Thank you,” Evan said hastily. He scrambled to stand up, his vision flooding dark from the abrupt movement and his legs turning to jelly, seemingly not having been informed that they were moving just yet. Well Evan hadn't been informed either. So—deal with it, legs.

Zoe frowned, something he didn’t think he’d ever seen her do before. She didn’t look like someone who frowned a lot, but somehow a frown—or was it a scowl?—looked just as natural on her face as her smile did. It kinda threw Evan for more of a loop than having actually been thrown.

“No,” she looked at him strangely and Evan was struck with the thought that he might’ve already blown their first encounter without even realizing. “Connor pushed you, that’s not alright, and he’s a dick for doing that.”

Evan nodded, anxiety clogging his throat.

Zoe seemed appeased by his agreement, shifting on her feet and flipping her backpack up in one fluid motion that Evan deeply admired. How did she just know how to do that? His eyes flicked to her backpack, noting that seeing it up close meant that he could actually make out what was on there compared to the colorful blur he had previously always seen it as. 

Her backpack had several key-chains and buttons on it that said random assortments of things, all equally different but having the same general upbeat tone. 

He wondered what it was like to be so confident of your interests as to be able to put relevant pins and keychains on something where everyone would see it.  
Wait- focus, Evan. This is a real life conversation that you're having with Zoe Murphy. Don't fuck it up.

“Anyways,” Zoe bit her lip and flicked her eyes around, “I, uh, I better go. Yeah.” She pressed her lips together in a gesture of a smile, shrugging as well.

“Oh!” Evan felt stupid that he hadn’t realized she was looking for an out on the conversation. Of course she is. You’re a weirdo, Evan. Who’d want to prolong exposure to the weirdo. “Yeah! Th-Thank you again.” He smiled lightly, hoping it didn’t look creepy. Or awkward, or gross, even though it probably looked like all of those things.

Evan stopped smiling.

Zoe returned the not-smile with a polite one of her own, bouncing a bit on her heels as she turned away.

But then she stopped, turned around and Evan was suddenly filled with irrevocable hope. It was stifling, warm and soft and Evan desperately wanted whatever feeling that was making his heart swell so pleasantly to stay there forever.

“See you around, Ethan,” Zoe smiled once more, a bit brighter, a bit more real, and continued on her way.

Any of the momentary light or hope he’d had a moment before was swiftly and utterly crushed. Evan didn’t know what he had expected. He got his expectations up, he should have known better. Zoe was too nice to do anything more than this. And Evan probably mumbled his name too much and it must've sounded like he was saying Ethan, so no wonder Zoe didn't know. He couldn't blame her.

Long after she must have stopped expecting a reply he managed to mutter a soft, “Bye...”

Evan watched her go, both hands on the straps of his backpack in a way he knew looked geeky and more than a little pathetic. Unbidden, his mind flashed back to the casual movements Zoe had done while talking to a nobody like him. God, he wished he could do that.

“My name is Evan,” he called out, correcting her. Yet he didn’t receive any reaction from the empty corridor; his words bouncing off the floors and lockers to die without anybody having heard it.

Zoe was long gone.


	2. Staring Into The Sun

Evan usually ate lunch. That was the one meal he could always sort of count on. He rarely ate dinner; the whole ordering pizza or chinese or really anything freaked him out, so he concluded that it’d be better if he just skipped it altogether. He didn’t usually eat breakfast either, a granola bar usually could tide him over if he was really hungry. Lunch, well, lunch was okay. He made sandwiches for himself the night before or grabbed a lunchable (what? He didn’t eat much and they were kinda good, sue him).

Today was a lunchable day and see, Evan had this thing with crackers where he’d let them sit on his tongue till all the salt dissolved and then he would eat the cracker. He was on his second to last cracker when he decided that he’d better write his therapy letter if he was going to be in the computer lab for a while. 

He’d probably print a new one later, like he usually does, but today he was feeling kind of, well, _meh_. 

_Dear Evan Hansen,_

_Nobody understands me. What? It’s true. What’s worse is nobody really wants to try. You’re the best friend I have, isn’t that pathetic?_

_Or; let’s face it: you’re the only friend I have. It’s just you and me, so why don’t we kick things up a notch and really be honest with ourselves._

_Mom didn’t want me, and the only reason that she kept me was because she had Dad to help her out. But he left her; left us. And she had already made the decision, one that lasted 7 years so it was too late to back out then, I suppose. She’s too good of a person to back out. I’m just holding her back. Mom got stuck, but Dad didn’t. He got to start over, start fresh, with a new family. One that doesn’t have a fuck up of a son that wouldn’t even go outside because he was afraid of the neighbors seeing him._

_Why didn’t we get to start over? Mom and I were practically branded when he left. ‘Stay away, there must be something wrong with them if they were tossed away like that.’ Nobody lets us start over, I guess. Why don’t they let us start over? Why can’t I start over? I want to start over so, so badly. Maybe then things would turn out different, start out better. I want to be somebody new, somebody who isn’t broken, but then I look in the mirror and, surprise surprise, it’s still the same old me. The same old anxiety ridden, worthless piece of trash, me._

Evan’s crackers were forgotten, lying abandoned in their little plastic tray to the right of him with the slightly weird smelling ham and Hershey bar that came as a set. If he wasn’t so swept up in the negativity, no, if he wasn’t so swept up in the _truth_ of his letter then he might have noticed the lab doors swing open and a person stepping through. 

_Nobody notices trash lying on the ground because why should they? It’s just trash. Sooner or later it’ll be thrown away again, so why bother to pick it up when it’s not going to change anything? But there’s Zoe... Who I don’t know and who doesn’t know me, but who it feels like all my hope is pinned on. Though, let’s be real. She doesn’t know you and she won’t ever care because why would she? You’re Mark Evan Hansen. MEH. You’re so unseen you don’t even have your own name. You had to make one up. Isn’t that right, EH?_

_Why would a girl like Zoe notice you? Why would anyone notice you?_

_It’s never going to happen. Why can’t you understand that? You can hope all you want, but that won’t change one very important thing in the end. Zoe doesn’t care. Nobody does. If you disappear tomorrow, nobody’s going to care._

_Nobody even knows your name._

_Why try? Oh, I know, you shouldn’t. Just give it up. You’re not worth the effort._

_Sincerely, me._

Without pausing he jams his fingers into the right keys, sending the page to the automatic printer. He should be on the verge of a panic attack, he knows, but he’s not. He feels calm, relieved in a way that Dr. Sherman said would come from writing positive things in the letters. Yet here he is.

He stands up, feeling kind of detached from his actions, and his casted arm feeling heavier than he remembered. In a vague, abstract kind of way, he thinks about what it would be like to be back in the tree. 

Would it be like he never left?

Coming back to reality is like being slapped while simultaneously getting drenched with ice-cold water. The kind of drenching that makes water drip down your pants and into your shoes, only to make your socks uncomfortably damp and squelch whenever you walk. 

Evan’s metaphorical slap and iced water comes to him in the form of one Connor Murphy.

Evan flinches despite himself and he’s somewhat prepared for another shove, even though the Connor Murphy that he’s looking at now seems like the last person to shove another guy to the ground.

“So, uh,” Connor says, shifting awkwardly on his feet. “What happened?”

“What?”

Connor glances down and does a gawky little gesture where he ducks his head down and kinda points with his hand still in his pocket. “Your arm.”

Evan looks down too; going along with whatever little skit they seemed to have silently agreed upon. “Oh yeah,” Evan says, eyes slightly wide, “I broke it.”

Connors face twitches, spasms maybe, unaccustomed to what looked like a smile pulling at the edges of his lips. Evan meant for it to be a joke, hoped for it to be a joke, but Evan is Evan and he doesn’t really tell jokes so when something in the air brakes and softens—he’s nearly weeping with relief. 

It feels like he can breathe a bit easier now. Like some of the haziness that the letter brought upon him is ebbing away. Evan would have never thought that Connor Murphy’d be the one to bring all that about, but he’s relieved it was—in a strange sort of way. 

“Yeah,” he responds, his eyes crinkling like they should have a smile to match but shockingly didn’t. “I kind of gathered that from the cast, but I was wondering what- how you broke it.”

Evan knew that. Did Connor know that he knew that? Maybe. Did it matter? Evan thinks that it should bother him a little bit more, like how pretty much everything else does, but it didn’t. Not really. In a distant part of him, he’s freaking out, but the main, more demanding part is reassuring him—for the first time in his life—that if he made Connor Murphy almost smile, then he must’ve done something somewhat alright.

“Yeah, well I, uhm, fell? A couple weeks ago? Out of- out of a tree.” Oh how smooth, Evan. 

“You fell out of a tree?” Connor says, laughing. “That is the saddest fucking thing I’ve ever heard.”

Connor laughs throughout his entire sentence and Evan can’t blame him really; he is pretty fucking sad. Connor laughs strangely, not that there’s anything wrong with that. Evan’s not even touching upon how awkward he seems and how his eyes betray the fact that he might’ve forgotten what laughing felt like. 

Connor kinda breathes out his laughter; like he’s trying to forcefully clear something out of his chest. And it’s lighter than you’d think, considering his whole appearance; the laugh possessing a more airy quality to it that guys’ laughs don’t usually contain. 

Maybe it’s from smoking. Did smoking make his air intake different from other people’s laughs? Evan faintly remembers reading something about smoker’s lungs having holes in them or something along those lines. Although Evan doesn’t really know how someone can just go about their lives having holes in their lungs, but maybe one of the side effects was making their laughs different. A bit distorted and a bit stilted. Or maybe that’s just how Connor Murphy is and Evan’s the weird one, over-analyzing a dude’s laugh.

“You should make up a better story,” Connor offers, picking at his strap again. 

Evan bites his lip and attempts a smile, though it probably looks more like he was trying to stare directly into the sun while also trying to hold back a sneeze. His mom tells him it’s very attractive.

“Yeah, probably.”

Connors eyes drift to the floor and Evan’s eyes follow suit.

Connor shifts before he speaks, “Just say you were fighting off some racist dude.” His voice is meek, and oh so quiet. 

"What?”

 _“To Kill A Mockingbird,”_ he elaborates, like that explains everything.

“To kill—o-oh, you mean the book?” Evan asks, realizing that it does actually explain everything.

“Yeah,” Connor says, offering a small, hesitant smile, like he was expecting to be shut down at any moment. “At the end, remember? Jem and Scout are running away from that redneck guy. He breaks Jem’s arm. It’s like- It’s like a battle wound.”

Evan remembers reading _To Kill A Mockingbird_ back in freshman year. His class was advised to read it, but it wasn’t mandatory for the class, because they focused more on _A Separate Peace_ by John Knowles. Someone broke their leg in that one, he remembers. But the thing that stuck out to him the most during that period when he was reading it, was how he choked and startled himself into an anxiety attack when the teacher called on him to read a passage. He’d had to hide in the bathroom until his mom was called to coax him out. Was Connor in his class? Did he see his meltdown? Evan can’t remember and he doesn’t know why that bugs him as much as it does.

“I, um, I never read it,” Evan offers up, clearing his throat and continuing even though he has no idea why. “Was it good? Well, no, I mean, not like- good, because it could be awful and it was just something that popped up in conversation, but I mean, did you like it? Because most kids don’t like the assigned books given out, so- I mean, not to judge all of them, b-because, not everyone hates the assignments, I mean, I don’t? Well, sometimes, I do, but like— D-Did you like the book… is what I’m trying to,” he gulps, “ask.”

Evan’s screwed it up. Whatever weird, unnamed relief that he had been riding on throughout the conversation is gone like it never existed in the first place. Connor’s going to get mad at him and realize that he wasted his time talking to someone like Evan because he’s gone and made everything weird with his stupid rambling and inability to ask a simple little question without stuttering and stammering and being gross and strange the entire time.

Connor’s staring at him. Staring at him like the fuck up he is and why did Evan try to carry on a conversation when Connor was obviously just trying to be nice. 

Evan can feel his shirt collar rub against his collarbone, having gone that low from the intense pulling and fraying Evan was subjecting the hem to.

It almost feels anticlimactic when Connors face does that unusual twitch-spasm thing again. It’s a little softer this time, closer to a kind-of-sort-of-maybe smile, but not really. Evan doesn’t really know what to do. Connor hasn’t replied and any preparation done by Dr. Sherman or his mom has Not left Evan prepared to try and maintain a conversation by himself. He can’t even contribute the normal amount, what is he supposed to do now?

Connor shifts, a paper that Evan didn’t notice before crinkles under his arm, before he nods, speaking a bit clearer, a bit brighter, now. “Yeah, um, it’s a great book,” his eyes crinkle, “hence why it’s critically acclaimed and famous for being a perfect coming-of-age-novel.”

Evan flushes and nods, hoping to move past the fact that he should have _known_ that. 

“I can see why it’s not everybody’s cup of tea though,” Connor goes on, adjusting his bag with his left hand, “It deals with some pretty dark shit, but most of the assholes here can’t even see past the superficial bullshit that they read on SparkNotes so it sort of makes sense why nobody likes reading it in class.”

After a thoughtful pause where Connor looks Evan up and down, appraising, Evan thinks—Connor tacks on one more thing. 

“I think you’d like the book. You seem like the type of upfront dude to come to a conclusion about the book yourself, and I think you’d like Boo.” At Evan’s blank look towards the name-drop, Connor mercifully explains that, “Boo’s a character in the book, kinda a loner, but an interesting character all-in-all.”

After collecting his hair behind his ear, Connor notices something that Evan miraculously had somehow forgotten about.

“No one’s signed your cast.” Connor has the grace to look surprised.

Yes, because Evan is a loser, and if you sign a loser’s cast, then you must be admitting that you interacted with this loser and nobody wants that. And thus—no signatures.

“No, yeah, I-I know.” Evan covers his cast with his hand as if his palm can somehow cover the entire thing and prevent Connor from completely seeing how blank and pathetic his cast is.

Connor shrugs, “Well I’ll sign it.”

Evan’s head snaps up so quickly that he gets a crick in it and has to physically force his face from screwing up in a lame reaction to the pain. “Really? I mean, you don’t have to, it’s really not a big—”

“You got a sharpie?” Connor interrupts. Evan’s grateful though, he doesn’t know where that was going and he’s sure he doesn’t want to find out. 

His hand reaches for the sharpie that’s been lying untouched in his pocket since this morning before he has time to second guess, shoving it in Connors direction somewhat forcefully. 

Connor, to Evan’s relief, takes it in stride and simply uncaps the sharpie (with his _teeth_ ) and writes his name in large, scraggly letters along the length of Evan’s cast.

When he’s done, Connor mutters a small “Voilá” that’s more to himself than anything, but Evan finds amusing nonetheless.

It’s a bit bigger than Evan ever would have done himself, (overstatement of the decade) but Evan’s, well, happy. In every sense of the word. He’s positive he could’ve probably started bouncing—

“Now we can both pretend we have friends.”

—if Connor hadn’t said that.

Evan’s elation doesn’t fade completely, which is awesome and more than he expected, but it does dim a bit. Evan had thought that maybe Connor would possibly want to be his friend, though, now that Evan thinks about it, was terribly forward and too wild a thought to even entertain. 

How does Connor know that he doesn’t have friends? Does Evan look like a person who doesn’t have any friends? (He is that person, so technically he would be a valid visual of what a friendless person would look like.) Or does Connor know that Evan doesn’t have friends because _he_ doesn’t have any friends? Though, that would mean that Evan would have had to left an impression on Connor and as his subconscious so gleefully reminds him; Evan isn’t the type of person that leaves impressions. Sure, it might be that he left a less than flattering impression, and that isn’t ideal, but it’s something, and if a certain someone were to think on the bright side as their therapist tells them to—this might be seen as somewhat of a modest victory.

Somewhere in the back of Evan’s mind, a tiny version of himself proudly straightens a metaphorical tie and basks in the small achievement.

Connor hands the sharpie back and while doing so dislodges the paper stuck under his arm. It flutters and does a little paper twirl, sliding across the air and knocking into Evan’s feet with a plop. Evan simply blinks and picks up the paper, looking at what very clearly to Evan is his less than mentally stable therapy letter.

Evan looks at Connor in question and with no small degree of panic.

Connor has the decency to flush and practically trip over himself to explain. “I saw it on the printer, and you’re the only one here and you were getting up so I knew it must be yours, and so I was, uh, gonna give it to you.”

Evan fiddles with one of the corners of the page, feeling exposed and slightly panicked from what could have been a very bad outcome. “You didn’t read it?”

Connor looks up, “Read it? No, I—no, I didn’t.”

Evan nods and stuffs it in his bag, the zipper loud and prevalent in the empty computer lab. Evan’s lunchable is well past cold and so he goes to trash it, pausing and looking at the Hershey bar before turning back to Connor.

“Um, do you, uh, do you like Hershey’s?” Evan raises the small bar for evidence before letting the tray drop into the trash. “I don’t like, uhm, milk-chocolate, which is really weird, I know, but, uh,” Evan cuts himself off and offers out the chocolate. 

Evan’s shoulders are raised and tensed, almost covering his ears from how far he’s ducking his head down. Evan didn’t think that Connor might not like Hershey’s and Evan could have just made a complete fool out of himself again. Do people even say Hershey’s anymore? Or do they just say chocolate? Chocolate bar?

It’s a tense moment before Connor nods and takes the offered chocolate. “Yeah.” He touches the chocolate with something akin to reverence before shaking his head and unwrapping the bar. “Sorry, I just,” He kind of chuckles, “I can’t remember the last time someone offered me chocolate.”

Evan smiles, shy and dorky and pleased all at once.

He feels like that was the most productive conversation he’d ever had. And it was with every emo’s wet dream, Connor Murphy, and not his therapist like he would’ve thought. Evan will definitely be writing another letter after school and now that he thinks about it, maybe the words that he’s been saying on repeat—maybe they’ll actually be true.

It turned out the day wasn’t so horrendous after all.


	3. A Dark And Stormy Night

All of her big dreams, her aspirations, they had never panned out very far. Back in sophomore year, when she thought everything was going to be okay, that everything was going to turn out alright—Zoe was thinking about heading off to music school. Julliard, Curtis Institute of Music, Manhattan School of Music, ya know, the works. Pipe dreams really, but she had fancied just going somewhere and to study the music she loved. 

Junior year screwed everything up.

Her brother always had a flair for the dramatics, heating things up that had no business being heated, though he wouldn’t have said so. She wouldn’t have said so either. 

Now that she has hindsight, and a few years of therapy under her belt, she knew that her brother hadn’t been alright. It had been her fault too, partly, letting things get as bad as they did. It was her mother's fault and her father’s, and Connor’s fault too. They all shared the blame in letting things get out of hand. The things she said and did to him will always haunt her just as the things he said and did to her will too. She assumes.

Connor disappeared a month into his senior year—seven years ago now—with no word nor action to indicate anything amiss. She could still remember most of it, although the majority of the details faded as the years went by.

They were eating breakfast—cereal she thinks—and it was a quiet morning. The quiet mornings that used to be unheard of in the Murphy household, but had been evermore frequent since the first day of school. Dad chalked it up to Connor learning how to grow up and be a man. Whatever that really meant. Whereas Cynthia simply coveted the peace that had blanketed the household for the first time in a long while and was in no rush to question it. 

Zoe doesn’t remember precisely what she thought of it, but she remembers being wary. She remembers sleepless nights where she sat in the stillness of her room, her mounted clock ticking away the hours as she listened to her brother sleep (or try to) through the thin walls. 

Now, she thinks she knows why she did it. Why she couldn’t fall asleep until she was more than certain he was safe—alive—in his room. Zoe had thought it was the calm before the storm and in a way, it was, it just wasn’t the storm she was expecting.

They had gone to school with minimal bickering, and what bickering there was, held no bite or malice. It was nice and she hadn’t wanted to ruin whatever silent truce they had formed. Connor drove, as per usual, before having an impromptu stop at Starbucks, of which she always craved in the mornings and had resorted to bribing her friend with a car to snag her some when she could. 

The brand name and the sweetness of the coffee drew her in and it stayed that way for the majority of her high school career. So what if it was overpriced, she liked the promptness it was made and the assurance that if she bitched about it, that it would be accepted with mild sympathy no matter what. 

Connor never considered getting coffee in the morning, and he considered it less when she was the one asking for it it seemed. He always said that if he could maintain insomnia without coffee, she could maintain a normal sleeping schedule without coffee too. She had thought the insomnia quip was a joke, a poor one that usually ended in him angrily turning corners too fast, but after he disappeared, she had found herself wondering if it truly was. 

Connor hadn’t said anything when they pulled up to the drive through, even as she questioned him. Just ordered the frappé she liked and a macadamia nut cookie before driving off without so much as a glance in her direction. Connor didn’t like macadamia nut cookies and neither did Zoe, a minuscule personality trait that the two shared, so she remembers wondering who it was for. If they were the reason for the random act of civility between her and her brother. She didn’t and still doesn’t know.

He gave her the keys (a policy she had put in place when he would ditch school and leave her stranded) and walked off without a ‘goodbye’ or even so much as a ‘see you later’. Not that she had expected him to.

And that was it. The last she had seen of her brother was when he was walking into school with his shoulders hunched, hair greasy, and a macadamia nut cookie tucked carefully in the outside pocket of his messenger bag.

He was declared dead four years later when no evidence or trace of his whereabouts were found.

Thunder cracked outside of the house, loud enough to startle Zoe into shaking off the ghosts of her past. As melodramatic as that was. She sighed and pinched her nose beneath her glasses. Figures that not only would she lose her brother but she would steadily lose her eyesight too. She wasn’t going to be completely blind, but any prolonged amounts of time reading made them more than a necessary addition.

Mariel, a student of hers, had written in crayon (for the fourth time) and it wasn’t doing Zoe’s eyes any favors as she tried to read the nonsensical scribbles and piece together the words the 5-year-old had painstakingly tried to construct.

After a few minutes more of sorting through the waxy pink lettering, the rain making pleasant white noise, she set aside Mariel’s paper in favor of Brendon’s neater, pencil, chicken scratch.

After making it through two tense, mournfully gloomy high school years, Zoe managed to graduate with slightly higher than average grades and had started looking into more realistic colleges. Ones closer to home and with more manageable tuition rates and schedules. Believe it or not, she had been planning to head into the nearest police academy before taking a fateful part-time job at the local preschool that had sealed her fate.

Zoe had taken courses at the local college to become a kindergarten teacher. Unlike most of the students her age, her college savings account managed to cover the majority of her college expenses, including tuition, with a few scholarships thrown in there for good measure. 

There had been a few strained months where Zoe feared that they would have to dip into Connor’s college savings to pay for hers, but luckily, they hadn’t.

Zoe hadn’t wanted to put that kind of burden on her parents then and still didn’t now. 

In result, however, she still lived in the house she grew up in. In fact, the elementary school she worked at was just down the road from the one she had attended herself.

She had twenty-six students in her kindergarten class this year and she positively loved each and every one. (Even if she had to _constantly_ remind them that crayons are for coloring and not homework.)

Had Connor still been here, Larry and Cynthia may have been disappointed in her choice of career, but the two were just so thankful that she would have a career to go on to at all that they didn’t put up much of a fuss.

Things weren’t awful concerning her or her family’s lives, they certainly weren’t the greatest, but she was happy with the choices she had made in spite of that.

She only hoped that now, wherever Connor was, he wasn’t angry anymore and that instead, he was happy and at peace. She had worked for a long time to come to terms with that. 

The doorbell rang and Zoe’s brow pinched in confusion, setting her glasses down at the same time. It was god awful outside so who could be ringing her doorbell at—she tapped quickly on her phone—eleven o’clock on a Sunday night? They’d have to be mad to be out in this kind of weather. She hadn’t been expecting anyone either and since her parents were out of town visiting her aunt, she doubted they had invited anyone over.

Cautiously, ever aware of the stereotypical white girl horror movie trope she could be falling into, Zoe peered out into the peephole. Huffing when she saw nothing but rain pelting the doorstep, she shook out her arms and opened the door with a determined swoop.

It wasn’t Ghost-Face that greeted her, instead, it was the face of a ghost she had long thought passed.

Connor.

\--*--*--

Zoe just watched him.

She felt like a Zoo Keeper of some sort; watching a wild animal interact with its new habitat. He moved around the room like he didn’t recognize it, or maybe like he didn’t think it was real.

Zoe’s eyes remained glued to his figure as he trailed a finger across the fabric of the couch. Connor picked up a picture frame from the mantle of the fireplace, rubbing his finger repeatedly over the corner as he did so.

It was a group-shot photo of the four of them, just before their relationships with one another started deteriorating, but no one knew that at the time. She must have been around 5 or 6 in the picture, 6 or 7 for Connor. They were smiling big smiles, hers more a pull of the lips and a show of the teeth than anything else. But Connors smile was bright, happy in a way she couldn’t remember ever seeing outside of distantly taken photographs. 

Zoe was leaning against the parting wall that separated the living room from the kitchen, settling in for watching Connor drift around the room.

He must be a ghost, or a specter or something else equally as impossible. 

It simply doesn’t make sense any other way. Unless she was going crazy, which, watching her brother bounce his leg up and down as he finally sat on the couch, hands clasped together and held against his mouth—going crazy could be a very real possibility.

He had just walked in here like he hadn’t been absent from their lives since seven goddamn years ago. Connor hadn’t said a word either, just stalked past her like she wasn’t worth the time. 

She had been used to it, back then. But now? It felt like an old wound that had been long healed had just been reopened with a butter knife.

Zoe glanced at the dinner table where she had been grading papers, she was sure that she had to have been drinking or had eaten some bad Chef Boyardee to see Connor like this—to see Connor at all. 

But the table was void of any alcohol or under-cooked pasta, her papers still lying where she left them and Mariel's crayon just barely visible in the dim lighting.

She turned back to the specter.

It looked like he hadn’t aged at all these past couple years. Figures he got the good genes of the family. 

The left side of his head looked like someone had attempted to give Connor a buzz cut, but had stopped halfway through, leaving half of his head with short, cropped hair while the other still had the waves and cowlicks she was familiar with. If not a little longer than she remembered. The disheveled mess of hair covered part of his face and made his features look more gaunt than they should’ve been. Small splatterings of raindrops caught the light when he moved, which was nonstop, but Zoe didn’t think the trembling had to do with the drying water droplets. 

He was wearing some sort of leather-made ensemble, a jacket with patches along the back and chains along each shoulders like bellhop epaulets, small gaps where some of the chains looked like they had been ripped out being the only discrepancy. His pants were similar to the ones he had worn in high school, a little worse for the wear, but could possibly be pulled off to be distressed jeans to the extreme.

“So,” Connor’s visible eye snapped to her when she pushed herself off the wall, “where’ve you been Connor?”

She tried to make her voice seem neutral, but it came out hardened and bitter instead—it was beyond recognition and she couldn’t bring herself to care.

Zoe wanted to be happy, she wanted to be relieved and hold him close to her. She wanted to cry and ask him what happened, where he went, why he had come home now, of all times. She loved him, he was her _brother_ , after all. Where did he go? Why did he _leave?_

But the second he walked by her, the breeze of his body moving quickly past hers settling across her skin—it had set the tone for how the night would be going. She could tell that much.

Zoe stared at him, waiting for a response, for anything really. Any indication that he was paying attention to her, that he cared about her as much as she did him. 

All she got was a lingering look, contemplation flickering across his half visible face before he returned it to the floor in front of him.

That- That really fucking hurt. What the fuck? Nothing? He wouldn’t even _try_ and make something up? Some reason as to why he just up and vanished one day? Did he have any idea how much pain he had put her through? That he had put their family through? Did he even care?

Zoe was pissed, which was an understatement, really. 

“Hello?” She spoke louder, a vein twitching on her forehead. She waved her arms to get his attention, and it worked briefly, his eye turning to her once more, making her feel like a bug being put under a microscope. 

“What the fuck, Connor? You can’t just- just show up here, seven years later and not talk to me!” She was gesturing now, hand flat and shaking from the utter disbelief she was feeling. 

Connor looked at her blankly, his brow a little furrowed, like he knew what she was saying but didn’t at the same time. 

Zoe was nearing the point of passing out from how livid she was becoming at his lack of reaction.

Connor stood up then, his jacket making a tinkling sound as his chains clinked against one another. His heavy boots moved across the floor towards the kitchen and Zoe, stupefied, followed after him a few moments later. 

She found him rifling through one of the kitchen drawers, a small notepad thrown haphazardly on the countertop. Without having to wait much longer, Connor found what he was apparently searching for—a pen, which made sense when put together with the paper—and started writing.

Seeing Connor doing something so mundane as writing took the wind out of her sails slightly. 

She was twenty-three years old, she could reign her emotions in, it wasn’t that hard.

Zoe still found herself having to use a breathing technique she learned in therapy to calm her down enough to clear her head.

Connor dropped the pen on the counter, turning to her and handing the entire pad of paper over. 

Handwriting that was still neat, despite looking like it had been written hastily, was scrawled along only the top portion of the pad.

 _I can’t explain right now, I’m sorry._  
_I’m waiting for someone._  
_After, I’ll explain, I swear._

Zoe lowered the pad, letting it hang limply in her grasp as she turned to her brother.

“Why couldn’t you just tell me that?” She asked, trying to hide her despair, her desperation—everything.

Connor just looked frustrated. Mouth pinching as he stared at her, eyes scraping across her face like he was looking for something but didn’t know what. 

Zoe opened her mouth, prepared to ask another question, wanting a straightforward answer this time, frustration still lining her gut, when Connor cut her off.

The “Not now,” was spoken so brokenly, nasally in a way that sounded so wrong coming from Connor even when she couldn’t really remember what he sounded like before anyways. 

It was like his tongue was too heavy in his mouth, unused to the shape and the sound of the words. Zoe didn’t like the feeling it left her with.

With one more hesitant glance, Connor turned and walked back to the living room, and from the angle Zoe was at, she could see he stood near the front window, facing the driveway to wait for whoever he was expecting.

Without much thought, she had already grabbed a bottle of wine from the kitchen and was pouring herself a generous glass.

Zoe barely felt the wine going down her throat, settling for the feel of the cold counter top against her arms as she stared at Connors form in front of the window, the light from outside casting shadows that played tricks on her mind to the point where she wondered if Connor was anything more than a shadow himself. 

After what had to have been longer than half an hour a thud finally came from the front door.

Zoe expected Connor to race over, because his friend must surely be here if the thudding was any indication, but he made no move towards it. In fact, it didn’t even look like he had noticed at all, continuing with his scan of the driveway like his visitor was still a far off notion. 

Zoe frowned, standing up to find the buzz she had been trying to cultivate had fizzled away after the distraction.

“Connor.” She called, looking at him quizzically. 

He made no notion of having heard her, not even twitching at her voice. 

“Connor?” She took a few more steps towards him and that seemed to catch his attention, eyes turning towards her like a moth would to a light. 

“The door?” She gestured, like that would help prove her point.

He blinked and then, looking surprised, headed quickly to the doorway, banging against the partitioning wall in his haste. 

Zoe followed only after she realized that he was gone. 

She heard the door fly open and the thud of what sounded like something heavy falling to the floor. Zoe sped up and rounded the corner to take in the scene presented before her.

A boy, one with short blond hair that looks more manageable than Connors mop, was crouched down on his knees, hands clutching Connors arms where he must have grabbed Connor before he had fallen. He was soaked far more thoroughly than Connor had been when he had come inside, shaking and breathing somewhat heavily. 

They’d had enough sense to close the door to keep the worst of the storm out, but that hadn’t helped the entryway from getting soaked any less.

“Um,” The blond boy’s eyes snapped to hers and Zoe felt almost startled at the immediate attention. 

“I’ll go get some towels, if you want to go sit down?” She phrased it as a question, but didn’t wait for a reply, already heading down the lower floors corridor to the small closet by the washroom.

Zoe took a moment for herself, feeling the plush, but somewhat coarse texture of the towel between her fingers. She sighed. She didn’t know exactly what was going on, which, whatever, when did she ever really know what was going on in the first place—but this was different.

 _Connor_ was different.

Sure, the not speaking part played into that, but it was the small things. The way he walked, moving with purpose and intent, not the idle way he had walked around before, hunched over and fidgety, looking like he expected the world to attack him at every corner. 

It was the way he breathed, even. The way his lungs sounded clear, the deep breaths that she saw similarities to her own breathing exercises when she was feeling too much, too quickly and couldn’t handle it all at once. 

The Connor that had just come back to her, the one who was wearing leather and was quieter than she had ever seen was changed; and not in the way she had imagined. 

Zoe pushed her hair away from her face, took a quick breath and returned to the foyer. She spotted small puddles leading their way towards the living room, making her sigh at the sight before she realized that was a silly thing to be bothered about at the moment. 

She heard what she thought was Connor mumbling some garbled words to the boy, but they stopped when she entered the room and Zoe tried not to be put-off by it. 

She handed the pair the towels and fell back into the armchair across from them with a small huff. Now that they were in slightly better lighting, she could make out more details from the newcomer. 

He was young, looking around 18 maybe, small enough to be that young at least, but from what she could tell underneath the leather raincoat-looking jacket he wore, he was broad enough to be a bit older than she thought. 

Connor had grabbed the blanket from the back of the couch and had thrown it over the boy’s shoulders, idly rubbing his back in more of a gesture of comfort than an attempt to warm him up. 

Zoe was struck by how… kind Connor was acting. It was so unlike her memory of him, so distinctly ‘other’, as warped as her memories may have been from time and bias. 

Zoe watched as the boy slowly stopped shaking and warmed up in his place on the couch. When it was becoming obvious that he was avoiding looking directly at her, head ducked and chin buried in his coat, she figured it was time to break the silence and speak.

“So,” dark eyes turned to her, looking almost black from the angle he was at, “Who are you?”

The silence was fragile, like the high note of a violin piece, trembling and defined. 

Slowly the boy shifted, facing Connor with a pinched expression on the visible half of his face before making a gesture with his thumb against his chin and his pointer finger moving up and down, close to how someone would mime smoking, but not exactly, before gesturing to himself. 

Zoe was almost sure that the boy was using sign language, but she hadn’t seen enough to be sure. 

Connor turned to her then, expression set and daring. “His name is Evan.”

Zoe blinked. That was the first sentence Connor had spoken to her since he had arrived and it had been to translate for someone else. She wasn’t exactly sure how to feel about it. But like she had assumed the first time, Connors words came out skewed, almost crooked with the way they came off his tongue. 

She thinks her surprise may have come across her face because the boy was signing something again, drawing Connors attention to him so easily, like she hadn’t struggled for it the entire time he was there alone with her and for the better parts of her childhood. 

Connor signed something back, and Zoe was shocked, although she shouldn’t have been, considering he had translated—duh, he must understand at least some of it—earlier. 

Both boys turned back to her at the same time, making her feel almost like a child with how thoroughly she was being kept out of the loop.

“We’re going to tell you something,” here Connor paused, face twitching as he struggled with whatever he was trying to get out, “Zoe, we’re asking you to trust us. To-” he glanced at Evan, “To trust me. Please.”

Well it’s not like she could say no.

With that, both boys shifted, Evan shrugging off the blanket still wrapped around his shoulders to pull at his raincoat and Connor gathered his hair together at the base of his neck, waiting. 

Wrapped around the hollow of Evans throat was inked words, starting from the edge of his shoulders to run along his clavicle and spiral around his neck, crossing his throat to run behind his head once more where the words reemerged on his cheeks and meeting at both sides of his mouth. His mouth and chin looked almost like a puppet from how the words were placed. After a moment, when it seemed like he knew she had taken everything in, he stuck out his tongue, revealing more words inked onto the surface of it. 

Zoe cringed, imagining the feeling of getting a tattoo there of all places. Usually she was all for self expression, but she couldn’t imagine the pain his tongue must have undergone to get that tattoo.

Once he was satisfied with making sure she had seen, Evan stuck his tongue back in his mouth and looked towards Connor, signalling Zoe to do so as well when he didn’t turn back to look at her. 

Connor had gathered his hair in clumps, some strands still falling in places, but had revealed enough that she could see similarly inked words making their way across his skin as well. What she had assumed were tricks of the light were words on the edges of his cheek bones, curling up above and around his ears, where Connor turned to show the letters written down to the pressure point behind his ear, where they continued to travel down the back of his neck, crossing over his collar bone and disappearing beneath his clothing. 

As far as Zoe was concerned, they had made some weird friendship-bond and had decided to get tattoos together, but from the look on either of their faces, she was wrong, and she didn’t know the half of it.

But she would. She promised.


	4. To Want What Hasn't Been Wanted

The bell rang overhead while Evan finished packing up his Algebra notebook and classwork. 

Today was an important day. 

Evan had hyped himself up the entire night before, even going so far as to stay up through the today so he wouldn’t talk himself out of it when he had gone to bed and woke up with a clear, anxiety filled mind. It meant he was nursing a rather horrible headache but it was worth it. 

Evan was clinging onto his determination with everything he had. Two days before, Evan had headed off to the library after school had ended and picked up a copy of _To Kill A Mockingbird_ and spent all night reading and rereading it. He afforded each page care and attention that he usually only gave to his botany and environmental books.

Yesterday he had thought up a plan, a quite detailed and pretty brilliant plan if he did say so himself. It was probably going to fail, but Evan had gathered this modicum of confidence for a reason and he was going to use it.

First, he would casually look around the cafeteria, scoping out the room for the table where Connor would be, then he would take his lunch over. Evan would sit down before Connor could say anything and he’d set his book on the table which would then prompt Connor to ask if that was the book he thought it was, and  
Evan would say ‘Oh why yes, thank you for noticing.’ He’d mention that he did indeed find Boo quite relatable and that he found it amusing that they both broke their arms fighting off a racist. 

Then they’ll laugh and he’ll find Evan so smart and funny and then they’ll eat lunch together and it will be great. He’ll befriend Connor Murphy for sure.

He hopes.

Evan’s practically shaking with every step he takes.

He’s got his book clasped in his left hand and he’s divided his attention between worrying about the entire world and if his sweaty hands can possibly warp the plastic covering over the book and if it’d be significant enough that he would have to pay to get it fixed at the library. If he really did warp the book so badly would the librarian even let him check out books anymore? Would he permanently be known as the book warper? 

Evan literally gets the spiraling thoughts knocked out of him by the feeling of a heavy, slightly odorous arm wrapping itself around his raised shoulders. 

“Yo Acorn,” Jared smelled like B.O, most likely from his previous gym period and it made Evan itch wondering if the smell would rub off on him and Connor would think he was the type of person that didn’t shower or use deodorant after gym. 

“What nerd book is that?” Jared snatched _To Kill A Mockingbird_ from Evan’s grip and Evan was immediately torn between demanding it back and letting Jared get bored of bothering Evan and his book. “How to get a mocking bird? Really, Evan,” Jared tutted, shaking his head in faux disappointment, “I thought you would know better than reading books that are actually assigned to us. That’s like, worse than those tree porn books you’re always stuffing your dick in.”

Evan hastily shushed him, feeling the blood rush to his face as he glanced around, making sure nobody else heard. What was Jared even talking about? That-  
Stuffing his dick in a book wasn’t even- he didn’t even think that was possible, or- or like comfortable.

Evan had to tear his thought process away from- practically everything Jared had just said to get back on track.

“C-Come on, Jared, just like- could you please, like, could you please just- g-give me my book back? Like I just, I just really need it for like, English, y-you know?” Evan made a grab for his book, hesitant to really take it from Jared even though it was his. 

Jared’s smirk only grew wider, twisting his arm to hold the book away from him, knowing he couldn’t put it above his head seeing as Evan was taller, even despite his hunch. “Huh? Whatcha gonna do Acorn? Take it from me?” 

Evan thought that he looked like a weasel. A really, really slimy weasel, or like a cat that had just eaten the pet bird.

Evan was pretty sure that he was the pet bird in this analogy.

He made a few half-hearted swipes for it, growing increasingly desperate as more people turned to look at them and as they grew closer to the cafeteria. 

Jared was laughing at Evan like this was the funniest thing he had seen all week.

Evan was scared. He had a painful headache that was getting worse by the second, he was exhausted and anxious and he really wanted his book back so that he could finally have one friend in the whole world that maybe, _just maybe_ , understood what it was like to be so completely isolated from the rest of the world.

“Jared, gi- give it to me,” Evan’s voice pitched up towards the end.

While Evan was growing increasingly panicked, Jared was struggling to keep the book out of Evan’s reach now, resorting to pushing and shoving him away instead.

Evan was sure that he was going to have bruises the next day.

Just as Evan managed to get his pointer finger on the edge of the book, Jared had decided that he was done playing with him and shoved Evan back, directly into another person.

Evan’s whole body flushed with fear and panic, immediately stuttering out apologies and placation's just in case the other person was mad. 

The girl he had run into just looked overwhelmed by the unceasing flow of words coming out of his mouth and when Evan stopped to breathe, took the first chance at leaving. 

Evan huffed, slightly out of breath, nine parts panicked and one part- well he wouldn’t say angry, but- annoyed? Irritated? He was some type of frustrated with 

Jared and by the look on Jared’s face, he knew and he didn’t care. 

“Whoops,” Jared smirked, “Lil clumsy there, arent’cha Acorn?”

Evan was so focused on Jared and his book that he hadn’t noticed someone come up behind Jared until they plucked his book straight from his hand.

Connor Murphy stood there in all of his pissed off glory- wait, pissed off?

Evan held his breath as Jared reached behind him and patted Connor on the stomach, up to his chest, and finally Connor’s face in some kind of comedy bit only he was aware of.

Connor went to bite Jared’s hand but Jared managed to pull it away at the last second with a yelp and a short, “Fuck!”

“What the hell, Murphy?” Jared massaged his hand like Connor had actually managed to bite him. 

Connor ignored him, instead turning the book to look at the cover.

Evan wasn’t sure if he was imagining it, but Connor looked… surprised? If not even somewhat—happy? Evan wasn’t sure how he knew, but he felt it in his bones that Connor Murphy was indeed happy.

Evan wouldn’t lie and say that didn’t make that familiar warmth bloom in his chest.

“You’re reading the book?” Connor’s eyes turned to meet his and Evan was momentarily frozen until he realized that he needed to respond. Things weren’t exactly going to plan, but Evan decided to just roll with it. 

It seemed like anything involving Connor Murphy required a high degree of adaptability. Evan could work with that. Probably. Hopefully.

Connor’s edge of happiness dimmed a bit and Evan realized he hadn’t responded in the normal allotted amount of time and _oh no_.

“Yes!” He said that _way_ too loud. “I mean, I read the book. Already. Twice. This is my third t-time reading it now because i wanted to make sure I knew everything, well not like, _everything_ everything, but like, I wanted to make- make sure i understood, before I-” he gulped, realizing where he had led the conversation, “before I talked… to you.”

Evan let his quiet words fade out as he pulled on the hem of his shirt. There was a small hole beginning to form along the seam and he comforted himself by sticking his finger through the hole and twisting it around as tight as he could make it. 

The minuscule spark was back, along with the face twitch that Evan had marked down as The Connor Murphy Smile.

Connor shifted his strap and his bag jingled slightly with the soft sound of keys clinking together. He made an awkward gesture at Evan, one that was kinda like a flap of his arm if Connor were doing a chicken impression or a possible attempt at getting Evan to follow him.

Evan decided to interpret it as the latter option.

Just as Evan went to follow behind Connor, Jared grabbed his arm.

“Woah, woah, woah Acorn,” Jared glanced between the two of them, “Where do you think you’re going? Are you seriously going to hang out with the resident school shooter?”

Evan managed to pull his arm from Jared's grip, rubbing slightly at the achy skin. 

By then they had drawn a small crowd, everything having to do with Connor Murphy seemed to do that, people just clustered around to gawk and stare at him like he was a wild animal at a zoo. 

It made Evan sweat, absolutely everywhere. Knowing that people could _see_ him sweat made him sweat even more and it was a horrible cycle of grossness and dampness that he’d probably need to awkwardly stand under the air dryer in the bathroom to get rid of, but then of course he’d smell a little funny and he thinks he left his deodorant stick in his gym bag today--it’s, just a lot for him.

They were looking at him. Not the crowd, but Jared and Connor, waiting for an answer. 

He knew the answer. He knew the right answer to Jareds question, but if he said it, he’d lose Jared.

But would that be such a bad thing?

On one hand, if he lied and said he wasn’t hanging out with Connor, things would stay normal. Nothing would change and he wouldn’t have to stress or stay up all night reading books just to have a conversation with someone. He wouldn’t have conversations at all. He’d like to think he’d still have Jared, but did he really?

Jared’s always said they were just ‘Family Friends’, which means they aren’t _real_ friends. Jared just hangs out with him because he has to.

But Connor… Connor _wants_ to hang out with him. He _wants_ to talk to him.

Nobody’s ever wanted that before. 

And Evan--

Evan wants that. He wants someone to choose him first for once. He wants to be Connor's friend. 

Evan squared his shoulders as best he could, straightening up so he was his actual height and looked at Jared. 

“Y-Yeah. I am.”

And that was it.

Evan spun on his heel and walked past a mildly surprised Connor towards the lunchroom.

His stomach was in knots and he wasn’t sure if he would be able to eat his lunchable that day, but when he glanced at Connor and saw a pleased little smile--an actual smile from Connor Murphy--it was worth it. 

And if he had a smile of his own? Well, it was only for him and Connor.


End file.
